I once waited tables at an intimate wine bar on Henderson Avenue. We were booked solid on Valentine’s Day, and every space in the refrigerator was filled with bottles of Champagne waiting to be popped. I approached a couple, and the man looked at me and said, “Dom Pérignon, please.” I returned with the bottle in a silver bucket and two chilled glasses. As I worked the cork, I noticed the man had a stack of 3-by-5 notecards in his lap. A proposal, I assumed. But when I returned to top off their glasses, the woman had her head in her hands. The man was reading from the cards, explaining to the sobbing woman how he hoped they could be friends. The woman fled to the restroom. When she finally emerged, he wrapped his arm around her and guided her out of the restaurant. A trail of toilet paper clung to her left shoe; I ran up and stepped on it. When I returned to clean the table, I saw they had left something behind: the cards the man had written to inform his wife of their divorce.